


Obsession

by vanete_druse



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Eating Disorders, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-09
Updated: 2011-08-09
Packaged: 2017-10-22 11:02:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanete_druse/pseuds/vanete_druse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as a fill for <a href="http://cabinpres-fic.livejournal.com/728.html?thread=595160#t595160">this prompt</a>.  <em>Martin was teased a lot for many reasons - being gay, his constant talk  of planes, and for being a bit on the... chubbier side. In adulthood he  hides being gay, but that isn't the worst of it. In his late teens he  developes an eating disorder. Now, at MJN, he's hitting an all time low.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Obsession

**Author's Note:**

> I truly hope that this fill does the prompt justice. Hope the OP enjoys even though it's not quite as slashy as I had originally intended.

  
  
_The sun is beating down relentlessly upon the playground, warming the grass and sandbox to a pleasant degree, and Martin wants to lay on top of the green blades forever. Arms outstretched, staring into the sky, if he squints and the breeze falls over him just so, he almost feels as though he is flying._   


_“What a fat poofter!” The laughter is shrill and piercing, drilling a hole into Martin’s temples to slip into the crevices of his skull and chase along the edges of his cranial sutures. This isn’t merely paranoia that forces him to jump to the rapid conclusion that the discussion is concerning him, but rather logic; this is the third time in two days he’s heard the phrase whispered around him, from behind the palms that attempt to disguise the playground banter that adults consider playful but actually stings like a wasp’s prick, each and every time._

 _Martin’s allergic to wasps. One lands on the flower right beside his ear, causing him to scream and run to clutch the skirt of his teacher, tears in his eyes, the mocking tones of his classmates following his every move. “What’s the matter, Martin?”_

 _He replies that the wasp almost attacked him. He only wishes that is the actual cause of his distress._

*

Two slices of toast, and half a cup of coffee. That is all Martin’s stomach can bear to intake when he rises from his bed in the morning, and even that is forced. One bite, two. There’s the thinnest sheen of margarine that glistens on the surface of the golden bread. He does not think on this as he opens the schedule book that he uses to keep track of his removal business.

No appointments. This is going into the second consecutive week in which there have been absolutely no calls, not even a feeble attempt at a booking. The rent is due in two weeks and Martin only has half of it in savings, given that he doesn’t buy a single thing before then.

Three bites, four. The grease that lingers on his lips makes him gag. When the phone rings, he takes a fifth bite and chews before picking up, so as not to appear desperate. “Martin Crieff speaking.”

“A client’s just booked a standby for a flight to and from Athens, and the taxi will be round in half an hour. Pack an overnight bag if you don't already have one at the airfield.”

The line goes dead, just a dull, uninterrupted tone in his ear, before he slowly rests the outdated phone in its cradle. He stares at it for five minutes, but it is completely silent.

Six bites, seven. That’s quite enough for the day.

*

 _  
In the very beginning, Martin doesn’t quite understand why everyone hates him.   
_

_At first, he thinks it’s because he tried to kiss Johnny Holmes during recess, when they were playing house. Johnny claimed being the Husband, so Martin insisted upon being the Wife._

 _That made Johnny laugh, and say, “You can’t be my wife. Husbands and wives kiss!”_

 _Martin tried to show him that he could kiss him, no problem, only to receive a sudden shove on his backside and the high pitched juvenile voice mangled from hatred, “Don’t touch me, you queer!”_

 _In fact, Martin is totally convinced that this is the reason why everyone hates him. So if only he tries to kiss a girl to show that he isn’t a “queer”, whatever that is. Never mind the fact that the idea of pressing lips with one of those stuck up, prissy, utterly annoying girls is positively revolting. Surely it’s worth it if it will get people to want to play with him?_

 _He waits a few weeks, until the whispers of the Johnny incident have died down and been replaced with talk of Carl getting sick, before he tries to do anything about this. Then he picks the prettiest girl in the playground, the one that all the boys talk about in the bathrooms, and who always receives the biggest pile of Valentine’s Day cards, as his target. “Um, hi, Mary…”_

 _She stops and turns to him, glossy blonde hair falling in sheets around her face. ‘Angelic’, is what most call her. ‘Gross’, is what Martin thinks, but he swallows hard and stumbles through. “I-I really like you so could you kiss me?”_

 _It feels as though the eyes of the whole playground are on them, hanging behind the rest, talking quietly. He can almost hear the buzzing of the wasps behind him. Mary appears sheepish as the words spill from his tongue like Carl’s sick, until she, too, hears the murmurs and feels the heat from the wide eyes. Her face hardens into a stone figure of her likeness as she spits, “Like I’d ever kiss a porker like you.”_

 _Throwing her hair behind her shoulder, she storms off in a flurry, to jump upon Johnny in an embrace and proclaim herself to be his Wife. Martin spends recess sitting in the loo, staring into the mirror with the palms of his hands pressed against his distended belly._   


*

Martin has got paperwork down to a science. Everything has its proper place, and if it doesn’t, he makes sure it gets one. Manuals, contracts, flight plans, all checked over and filed twice by the time that Douglas finally drags himself in. Carolyn would berate him but he’s heard it all a hundred times and doesn’t see the use; Martin would berate him but he hasn’t got the energy to waste on something so futile. “Already finished?”

“Yes. It’s not like anyone else is going to do it, so why delay the inevitable?”

“If ever there’s a time for delaying, it would be now. What else is there to do?”

“Dear God, if you say anything regarding flight procedures I may have to rethink about booking standby flights.”

As it turns out, this is precisely what Martin has on the tip of his tongue before Carolyn interjects. He swallows the words and feels his stomach lurch uncomfortably – a precursor of the inevitable. Douglas is preoccupied with a novel and Carolyn has her nose pressed into tiny numbers that she’s calculating, over and over, just in case. There is not one iota of a thought given to him, and he uses this to his advantage as he flips to a random page in his aviation manual and slipped one hand surreptitiously beneath the table to rest flat against his lower abdomen.

 _“…temporary control zones and areas will be established for Royal Flights where previously no such area of control is implemented…”_

Pressing down gently, the first rumble begins, inaudible, yet quivers the walls of his stomach for a heartbeat before desisting. It always starts like this, like thunder, a few far off claps spread between minutes.

 _“…They will consist surrounding the airfields of both departure and arrival, for 15 minutes before and 30 minutes after…”_

But quickly, they increase in both frequency and velocity, the vibrations tossing the few lumps of soggy bread that are resisting digestion, as his fingers press deeper into his flesh, making an inward indentation. Unfortunately for Martin, this is precisely the moment that Arthur decides to burst in and is actually observant for once. “I just heard a stomach growl, and I’m definitely sure it’s not mine. So, breakfast, chaps? There’s a great bakery just down the road. I’m sure Mum won’t mind if I just nip down there really quickly, right Mum?”

“Sure, run along now, Arthur,” comes Carolyn’s disinterested voice, waving him off.

“So whose was it? What would you like?”

Douglas’ head rises from his novel and looks over at Martin with raised eyebrows. “Well, I can most certainly confirm that it was not me, and if we take Carolyn’s silence as confirmation, as well as your own, by process of elimination we are left with…Martin. In other words, pester the Captain, not me.”

There’s a lump in Martin’s throat as Arthur obediently turns to him, his innocence making him appear so gentle, so fragile. He has full intentions upon deterring him, as long as possible, but even with his hands resting palm down upon his (much too large) thighs, his stomach makes an even louder noise and gives him away. “Really, Skip. They’ve got fresh donuts and breakfast sandwiches where they even grill the bread! Everything is homemade!”

Realizing that there is no way out of this now, Martin awkwardly shrugs and mumbles something incoherent, even to himself. Apparently Arthur deciphers this gibberish because afterwards he’s off, the metallic clang of the keys somehow even sounding lighter, simply because of the person who’s jiggling them.

“Skipping breakfast before a potential flight? That’s not very professional, now, is it?”

“Leave it, Douglas.”

The words on the page blur into lines of ink black scribble on piercing white paper. He can’t focus on any of them because all he can think about is the paper bag that Arthur is going to return with.

*

  
_It’s a gradual process that doesn’t really have a conscious beginning, growing inch by inch into the obsession that rules his life. He hardly even notices when he starts going for diet and low fat and sugar free. Margarine instead of butter. Vegetables instead of chips. Rice cakes instead of crisps._   


_Martin doesn’t think anything of it because it’s a good thing. He’s being healthy, eating good things in portions rather than shoveling in bad things, things that make him gargantuan. Especially along with walking the dog; a chore he used to abhor but now embraces, even goes so far as to plead for Simon and Caitlin’s shifts. They’re more than happy to comply, and he finds himself around the neighborhood at least three times a day, just him and his dog, Amelia, a medium sized mutt with shaggy light brown fur and a slight waddle._

 _Sometimes when he walks her after school, they take the back way home, through the woods the surrounds the edges of the development. There’s a small alcove created by the two largest trees, their branches gently entwined, and he stops Amelia here, and she obediently rests, looking up at him trustingly through pale grey eyes. Martin pets her and hugs her and feeds her the food that he didn’t eat just in case anyone peeks into his lunch box that night._

 _At first, it’s just crusts and the crumbs of his snack. Then it’s crusts and half of his snack. Crusts and his snack. Half a sandwich and his snack…_

 _Amelia’s waddle becomes more pronounced. Martin begins to fade but all he can think is_ ‘just a few more sizes down.’

*

Arthur’s back in no time at all, laden with brown bags and a cup that he sets down on the table and pulls up a chair. “Alright Skip, I’ve got an egg, cheese and bacon sandwich that has bagels for the bun. And a cup of porridge and of course, your coffee.” And then he looks up at Martin trustingly, waiting for approval. The smell is too much and Martin can feel his mouth watering as he gingerly peeks into one bag.

It smells beyond delicious, but it’s covered in grease and butter and fat and calories. He wants to retch but he can’t, because he’s starving and the aroma is drawing him in, just like the sight of an insect forces them to fly straight into a light bulb to shorten their blip of a life by electrocution. “…thank you, Arthur,” He responds, quietly, as his fingers grip the edge of the wax paper to pull the sandwich out and place it on the table. “What do I owe you?”

“Just imagine it’s a meal on a flight! You never have to pay for those. It’s no big deal, honest.”

Martin wants to put up a fight, but he can’t. Not with food so tantalizing, begging to be eaten. Really, he tries desperately, starts off even with a few spoonfulls of warm, thick porridge and bites of just the bagel part, shiny and slick.

But the willpower he’s built up over the years is shattered as he realizes that this might be the last decent meal he has for at least a month. That this is the first decent meal he’s had since their last flight a week or so ago. And a little indulgence never hurt anyone, not when he’s been so good for so long.

“I told you that it was really good! I’m so glad you liked it, Skip. We all should go there for breakfast before each flight, their shop is absolutely brilliant! They’ve got these little trinkets, like of aeroplanes for the airfield and such, and postcards…”

Arthur’s voice fades to a dull murmur in his ears. He’s staring at the empty cartons where all the food had been and wondering, _“Where did it all go?”_ The wax paper wrapper is crumpled, nothing but crumbs and grease marks, little bits of egg that fell off the edges of the bagel; the paper bowl is all but licked clean, nothing but the glaze left on the circular wall and bits of oats stuck in the innermost crease of the bottom. On top of that, the coffee is long gone, liquid calories and hot weight.

When Martin can finally bring his eyes from the remains of his breakfast, he finds that Douglas is watching him with concerned eyes. But even he can’t shake his sarcasm, his superior sneer that forever reminds Martin that he will never quite be enough, “The van business isn’t doing so well, I take it.”

 _“Of course it isn’t, I’m the manager. We all know that I’m incapable of doing anything. No control whatsoever. I’m gay and incompetent and fat; what hope is there for me?”_

He doesn’t say anything, merely stands, throws away his trash, and leaves the portacabin, somehow his body feeling utterly detached from everything. As the door is closing, he can hear Douglas’ tone take a very different tone as he calls, “Martin, wait-!”

Nobody’s waited for him before. He doesn’t see why he should do the same for anyone else.

*

  
_This is a punishment._   


_For all the junk food that he’s just forced down his throat, to expand his already swollen limbs._

 _For his pathetic performance in physical education thus far, not even close to meeting the average standards set for him, as everyone laughs at him from the sidelines and the teacher looks at him with a mixture of pity and incredulity._

 _For the lack of willpower to actually actively attempt to change things, just a sad lump of bundled lipids and brittle bones wasting away on the couch as television shows and movies dance and sing to remind him of the perfection that he will never attain._

 _Shaking slightly, he kneels upon the tile flooring, staring into the porcelain bowl the smells of stale bleach and bodily fluids. Nobody is home but Amelia, who is sleeping in some other room, curled up underneath covers without a worry._

 _Martin swallows hard, and slips his hand into his mouth. One, two, three…all he can do is gag. He can’t quite reach the back of his throat but he’s sure if only he could…_

 _His toothbrush is leaning in the holder, almost gesturing to be put to use. The nub is slightly triangular, and it’s the perfect length to brush the very depths of his mouth, the little area that in a single jab is not only purifying the contents of his stomach, but also to chastise his lack of care and will._

 _A cold sweat is all over him, his abdomen is aching from the forced tautness and the acid is eroding the mucous lining of his esophagus. He should be feeling absolutely wretched, yet the sight of the fried crisps loaded with processed cheese, the chocolate dipped digestives, the candy worms covered in sugar coating the white ceramic makes him feel relief. His body is no longer being contaminated, even if he can still taste it all in his mouth, along with the sharp sting of bile._

 _Leaning back against the freezing tub beside him, Martin presses his palms to his paunch. Underneath the rolls, his stomach almost feels concave._

 _No one has returned. The house is as silent as it was when he started. He covers his face with his hands and all he can smell is vomit._

*

One thing that Martin loves about Fitton Airfield – the small, one room bathrooms in the crew canteen. Locking the door behind him, he methodically shrugs himself out of his jacket and his crisp shirt, hanging them both up, out of harm’s way. The floor isn’t completely disgusting, and he gently lets his legs fold underneath him as he resumes the position he’s so familiar with. Circular bowl in front of him, the stench of foreign shit and piss activating the gag reflex before he’s even brought his hand up.

But of course, it isn’t enough. In go his fingers, his middle finger wiggling in exactly the right place, the method that he’s perfected over the years. He hardly even notices when his teeth brush against the skin of his knuckles, puncturing the skin; he’s too focused on ensuring that he’s gotten everything. Coffee and porridge are the first to make their reappearance, then bits of cheese, bits of bagel, bits of egg, bits of bacon. He can see everything but he’s so certain that there’s still something, he can feel it in the pit of his stomach, clinging to the organ in a desperate attempt to evade him.

So he keeps at it, even though all he can taste is gastric acid. Teeth biting down to the bone as he continues, over and over and over until he can taste metal.

There’s blood in the toilet. It would shock Martin if he had the energy to be shocked; instead he simply flushes and stands on trembling legs and stumbles to the sink.

In the mirror, he doesn’t see himself. In the mirror he sees a pale face flushed, with lips reddened from the blood he’s just puked and dark eyes; the person that is looking at him is just a wafer, two steps from being invisible, a feather in the wind.

Martin buttons his shirt, and slips his jacket back on, ignoring the rawness in his throat. His abdomen feels hollow and his shirt fits just a tiny bit looser, feeling the extra space as he tucks the tails into his waistband, and he smiles. _Just a few more sizes down._

When he steps back out into the crew canteen, his skin prickles and heats, before chilling, and everything slips far, far away.

*

 _One time, Simon catches Martin, when he comes home an hour earlier than expected. He’s caked in mud from playing football and makes a beeline for the bathroom, and only stops when he hears a rather loud retch come from behind the closed door. “You okay in there?”_

 _Martin immediately jumps up, as though his spine’s received a jolt, his hand gleaning from sick. His throat burns, and he reeks, and now he’s rattling at the thought of Simon telling their parents. Because now Simon’s heard, now he knows, oh god, what is he going to do?_

 _The stress is almost too much to bear. He shoves his hand back in his throat and gags a little bit more, which calms him down. “Is that you, Martin?” The handle shakes, but doesn’t turn completely. “Let me in, are you okay?”_

 _Now, Martin is calm enough to respond, “I think I must’ve eaten something funny. Can’t you use Mum and Dad’s bathroom?”_

 _There’s a pause that Martin spends holding his breath. Then a shuffle, a sigh, and Simon says, “Whatever it was, throw the rest out so we all don’t get sick,” before walking away._

“A few steps ahead of you, Simon.”

 _He waits until he can’t hear the footsteps any longer before resuming his intentional assault upon his body._

*

Opening his eyes, all Martin can see is Douglas, kneeling by his side and checking his pulse. He feels as though he’s floating under water, all the sounds traveling through the liquid before it wafts, gargled and incoherent. This is why he barely reacts to Arthur’s excited cry of, “HE’S COMING TO!” that attracts anyone who isn’t already gathered around the scene.

Thankfully for Martin, Carolyn scares them all off, leaving a corner of the room just to the four of them – the entire company of MJN Air. “The ambulance should be here any moment. Go ahead and make sure they get through here.”

Carolyn does not remind Douglas who is the CEO. She merely grabs Arthur’s arm and drags him off before he can fling himself upon the just awaken Captain. “How are you feeling? Can you sit up?”

Pressing his elbows into the ground, he feebly attempts to push his torso upward, remembering so many days in a gym, being forced to do sit ups and press ups. Douglas aids with a soft but firm hand at his back, slowly helping him into an upright position and waits to see Martin’s reaction. The world spins for a moment before straightening out. “I…don’t know how I’m feeling. Hollow.” The scratchiness of his voice gives away his sore throat. His head feels suddenly lighter than air and he involuntarily rests against his First Officer’s body.

“Goodness gracious, Martin. You’re skin and bones.” Douglas leans down, a finger underneath the chin of his Captain, and tilts his head up slightly to smell his breath. “You’ve been sick.”

This makes Martin laugh humorlessly, and shrug his shoulders as well as he can. “I’ve been sick for a very, very long time. It’s a permanent state of affairs.”

“But it doesn’t have to be. You could just ask for help. I’d have been more than happy to be of assistance-“

“How? This isn’t something you can wave your magic wand and fix, Douglas. Tell me, how can you, Mr. Everything Always Goes My Way, be any sort of help to a person who has done nothing but fail his entire life?” Martin has more to say, more repressed anger to express, but that’s all the energy he has. He’s forced to lean against the taller man, feeling the way he’s held as though he’s fragile, like an antique china teapot. “How long have you known?”

“A few months. You’re about as subtle as a lead weight, Martin. I didn’t want to confront you in case I was wrong; while I pride myself on always being right, this is not a subject that I particularly wanted to put my famed luck on. Unfortunately for you, I was a bit slow-“

“-a lot slow-“

“-I intend upon making it up to you by being incredibly blunt now. I put my right hand down on this imaginary bible, and swear on the Heavens to you that you are _beautiful_. And I know that is not a magic wand wave, fix all, but I also intend upon dedicating quite a large fraction of my time awake in _proving_ it to you.”

Martin is saved from responding by Carolyn, who shows up with the paramedics. As they lift him onto a stretcher, he reaches out and whispers, “Please let Douglas come with me.”

They’re hesitant, but make room for the First Officer. Carolyn placates Arthur by insisting that they will follow the ambulance. Douglas runs a hand through Martin’s hair before taking his hand, examining the scars on his knuckles. “I _am_ going to prove it to you.”

Martin’s pretty sure that it’s not possible in the slightest. But then, he’s rather used to Douglas accomplishing the impossible.


End file.
